


The Diamond Closed Tight in Your Hand

by sayasamax3



Category: Ookiku Furikabutte | Big Windup!
Genre: Love Bites, M/M, Marking, Scratching, possessive!Tajima
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-07 23:39:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sayasamax3/pseuds/sayasamax3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There had been rules, originally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Diamond Closed Tight in Your Hand

There had been rules, originally.  And Tajima is actually pretty good at following rules, so long as they’re clearly laid out ahead of time.  He loves Hanai, so he follows Hanai’s rules, same way he follows the rules of baseball. 

Which is why he’s really glad that Hanai has never seen fit to make a rule about  _marks._   Because he loves Hanai, and Hanai is stupidly handsome, and one of Hanai’s rules is that they keep quiet about their relationship so when people stare longingly at the team captain and sigh about how he’d be such a  _nice_  boyfriend, Tajima can’t smugly agree and say, “I know, he’s the best boyfriend ever.”

Maybe it’s because Tajima’s life has been shared rooms shared clothes shared magazines sharedshared _shared_ , but he’s in the habit of putting his name on things that he wants to keep for himself.  Of course, Hanai’s not some  _thing_ , he’s not a spare baseball or some dessert Tajima wants to discourage his brothers from eating.  But he’s Tajima’s person and there is something in Tajima that’s become unsettled by his inability to say as much.

So at first, it’s not even marks.  Tajima just traces the shapes of his name into the space between Hanai’s shoulders—sometimes when Hanai is sleeping beside him, sometimes when they’re connected from mouth to hip to knee, and sometimes afterward when they’ve crammed into the bath together and Tajima’s supposed to be washing Hanai’s back, not claiming it.  And when they’re apart it is Hanai’s name that he traces with his fingertips—onto the back of his hands, his knees, his wrists—because Hanai is his person but he’s Hanai’s person, too.

It’s not enough, though.  Tajima can see it, can see every place he’s ever written his name on Hanai and every place he’s even written Hanai’s name on himself.  But no one else can, and so it’s not enough.

***

It escalates on accident, at first.

“Ha—Hanai, that’s— _aah—“_  Tajima’s arms wind around Hanai, his fingers scrabbling over the smooth plains of Hanai’s back, bunt nails digging in a little too deep when Hanai thrusts into him  _just right_  and Tajima is too busy stifling his shouts against Hanai’s shoulder to think about what his hands are doing. 

But whatever his hands are doing must be the right thing, he thinks, because Hanai  _growls_  at him, pins him against the changing room wall more forcefully, kisses insistently at his neck until Tajima raises his face again and they can swallow each other’s sounds.  

“Oops,” Tajima mutters, and feels actual, honest-to-goodness remorse when he sees the angry red lines on Hanai’s back afterward. 

“’Oops’ what?” Hanai asks, and preemptively puts on his “What did you do now?” Disapproving Captain Face.  Tajima thinks he might just deserve it this time, too, because there’ll be no hiding those scratch marks from the team, not in their tiny changing room.

“I  _might’ve_  scratched up your back a little,” Tajima says, which perhaps a total understatement.  “Sorry.”

“Oh.”  In an unexpected turn of events, the stern expression slips right off of Hanai’s face and is replaced by a dark shade of pink.  “Uh, alright.  Do you think it needs to be disinfected or anything?”

Thrown off but happy to avoid chastisement, Tajima takes a step closer to better inspect his handiwork.  “Not really, I didn’t break the skin or anything.  But maybe just in case?”

“Okay, I’ve got disinfectant in my bag, if I can just …”

Hanai doesn’t say anything else about it, after that.  Not while Tajima sprays disinfectant over the marks, not while they put their clothes back on and lock up the changing room.  Not even as they walk their bikes to the front gate together or kiss each other goodbye.

 Hanai doesn’t say a thing about it, and that says all Tajima needs to hear. 

***

It’s not an accident anymore.

Tajima begins keeping careful note of the length of his nails, keeping them short enough not to interfere in a game, but long enough to leave unmistakable red lines on Hanai’s back and shoulders that their teammates will raise curious eyebrows at, then shrug off because they’ve known the truth from the beginning and really, Izumi tells him after practice, they’re just surprised this didn’t happen sooner.

Hanai, for his part, never scolds Tajima for the marks he leaves, even after it becomes very, very clear that Tajima is doing it on purpose. 

***

The first time Tajima decides he’s going to leave a hickey, he half expects that Hanai will finally put his foot down about this whole marking business.  Scratches can be explained away (Hanai’s excuse last time a classmate saw them was to claim he got a new cat), but love bites—not so much.

Tajima has been observing, paying close attention to exactly where the collars of Hanai’s tee-shirts usually sit.  He kisses just below that place, a little under Hanai’s collarbone, until it’s much more than a kiss and Hanai is gasping, one broad hand cupped around the back of Tajima’s head, _encouraging_. 

The next day, Hanai wears a button-up to school.  Tajima’s satisfied all the same.

***

“I keep thinking I’m gonna wake up with your name on my forehead one day,” Hanai admits one evening. 

“Gimme a marker and I will,” Tajima says, climbing into Hanai’s lap. 

“No way!” Hanai leans back as though to dodge an incoming marker, and Tajima follows after, until Hanai falls backward onto his bed.

“I definitely will,” Tajima insists, placing the tip of his index finger on the center of Hanai’s forehead.  His finger moves to trace out the familiar characters of his name as he says, “I’ll write my name really huge  _right_ here!”

When Hanai’s face goes red, Tajima assumes it’s for—well, any number of reasons, Hanai’s no stranger to blushing.  But then he stutters, “Th-that’s your  _name_?” and Tajima can’t help thinking  _oops_  even before his mind has fully put all the pieces of this puzzle together.

“That’s your  _name_ ,” Hanai repeats, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow.  “You always—on my back—and it’s your  _name,_  damn.”  

Tajima’s used to being exposed, but not quite used to  _feeling_  exposed.  Now that he does, the only way he can think to cope is to stare at Hanai until something clicks and the feeling goes away. 

By the time he moves his arm away from his face, Hanai seems a bit more composed than before, though his cheeks are still bright pink.  “Tajima,” he murmurs, “Come down here for a sec.”

Tajima doesn’t question, he just squirms his way into a comfortable position over Hanai, and when the taller boy rolls Tajima moves with him, allowing himself to be laid out bare over the rumpled bed sheets.

Hanai’s lips at the junction of his neck and shoulder are an unexpected treat, as is the momentary sharpness of teeth, the gentle suction, the soothing slide of his tongue over Tajima’s skin and it’s not long until Tajima’s squirming, nails scrabbling against Hanai’s shoulders (back to the basics). 

“There,” Hanai breathes out the word as he pulls away. 

Oddly enough, Tajima feels a bit breathless too.

“There…?” Tajima repeats, one hand touching the skin Hanai’s just thoroughly abused.  He breathes in sharply through his teeth, not because the skin is tender (though it is), but because there’s  _no way_  he can hide this and they both know it.  “Hanai?”

“C’mon,” Hanai says, pointing to his own neck, “Leave one right here.”

Tajima’s first impulse is to surge forward and just  _do_ it, but he’s spent _months_  avoiding places that couldn’t be hidden, and there were reasons, there were  _rules_.  Rules about secrecy and public decency and upholding reputations and Hanai is just—just throwing them out?

“Yeah Tajima, it’s alright,” Hanai assures him, and Tajima’s not sure if he spoke out loud or if they’ve just spent  _that_  much time together but he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he doesn’t waste any time doing _exactly_  as he’s told.

—-

“Y’ can’t hide me anymore,” Tajima says later, still staring transfixed at the mark he’s made on Hanai’s neck—just a small little pink thing, it’ll be gone before the weekend, but it’s  _there_  and it’ll be seen.

He presses agaisnt his own mark with two fingers, feels the dull ache, and thinks, ‘ _We’ll both be seen._ ’

“Not like I was doing such a great job before.  Do you really think  _anyone_ believes I have a cat?”

Tajima laughs too hard to answer, and that’s all the answer Hanai needs.  


End file.
